Shoot Your Gun
by Kaesteranya
Summary: Assorted standalone oneshots and flash fiction pieces for the following pairings: Otacon & Snake, Big Boss & Ocelot, Ocelot & Snake and Boss & Big Boss. Other pairs may follow. Most of these will be porny.
1. The hustle & bustle, OtaconSnake

**The hustle and bustle of the traffic greets you.**

_Theme date: September 19, 2007._

* * *

If Snake hadn't really believed that days could start out on a bad foot without even really beginning before, he was certain that he believed in the idea now. The gods of hangovers, for one, had roused him awake to the noise of car horns blaring at full volume somewhere down the street. For another, he found himself very naked and sprawled on his stomach and sort of drooling onto the pillow under his cheek. In a bed that was not his bed.

_What the fu—_

"Oh, you're awake!"

And Otacon marched right into the room, naked but for the towel; his smile as bright enough and strong enough to power at least a hundred Metal Gear Rays. The brunette plopped unto the bed (totally ignoring the way Snake inched away from him) and put down the coffee mugs he had brought in. "How are you feeling?" he chirped. "Everything okay?" Whether he was aware of the horrified look on Snake's face or completely oblivious to it was a mystery.

"W-w-w-w-wh—"

"Don't tell me you _don't remember_?" Otacon's disappointment lasted for all of 2.5 seconds. "Oh well! I guess that means that I'll have to help you remember"

Apparently, helping him remember meant Otacon leaning forward and snaking a hand up Snake's thigh. Snake, the super soldier who had lived through wars and single-handedly destroyed enemy bases full of skilled enemy soldiers, felt the sudden and violent urge to shriek. Otacon chuckled.

"Don't be so shy… I took you all the way last night, you know." he nipped at Snake's ear, and traced the man's earlobe with his tongue. "It was _magical_."

And after a good, long while, Snake did remember only all too well.


	2. If I could live, OtaconSnake

**If I could live with you**

_Theme date: January 31, 2006._

* * *

Weekends usually meant coming home and finding Snake in front of the telly with a week's supply of microwavable TV dinners and a stack of old pornographic VHS cassette tapes. Snake was never in the mood for talking beyond the necessary level needed for basic communication and Otacon didn't mind it; he had perfected the art of hard coding viruses and hacking into government databases to the sound of some big-breasted beauty getting fucked by a guy/donkey/machine/monkey/all-of-the-above a long time ago.

Sometimes, Snake would reward Otacon for his patience by wandering over, pulling up a chair, handing Otacon an ear cleaner and promptly dozing off with his head in Otacon's lap. Otacon would obligingly save his work and clean out Snake's ears. The ex-FOXHOUND agent was, during downtimes, Otacon's human-sized pet dog, and Otacon intended to enjoy him whenever he was given the chance to.


	3. That is the territory, OcelotSnake

**The tale is the map that is the territory**

_Theme date: December 25, 2005._

* * *

"Your father fucked me much like this once."

Revolver Ocelot said this musingly, almost to himself, as he pulled his fingers out and pushed the tiny plastic nub in. "It took me a while to figure out whether I enjoyed it, or whether he was just _forcing_ me to enjoy it," he casually declared. The man wiped the lube off his fingers with one hand. "I suppose I did, though. What your father and I had… it was special. Unique, you could say."

Ocelot turned the vibrator on. The old man frowned when all Snake did was arch his back and shut his eyes, hands flexing helplessly against the rope binding his wrists together. "You're so quiet tonight," he noted. He seemed to have forgotten that he had sealed Snake's mouth shut with some duct tape. The gunner turned the speed up. Snake squirmed.

"Really. It's rather disheartening."


	4. In every bullet, BigBossOcelot

**Their story is in every bullet fired down the barrels of their guns.**

_Theme date: July 27, 2007._

_I haven't played the original Metal Gear Solid, so my details may be a bit shaky._

* * *

Beyond that fateful mission in the forests of Russia, their relationship was built on encounters in the various shooting ranges of their lives. Whether it was in a military base with paper targets and mufflers or in some overgrown yard with tin cans and the glaring brilliance of the sun, it was only when they were killing things or shooting at stuff did the both of them feel like talking to each other.

"Your aim is off. You move around too much."

"Don't lecture me! I know what I'm doing."

Jack — the one that the world called Big Boss off the field and Naked Snake when he was on it — smiled and shook his head ruefully, as though he was dealing with a child and an ex-KGB soldier. Ocelot had half the mind to glare, but he knew that it would only amuse the older man. The blond focused his anger on the target in front of him instead. A full year had already passed, but he hadn't managed to master the ricocheting as much as he would have wanted to.

"Let me help you with that."

The only warning Ocelot had received was the sudden stink of cigarettes wafting up from somewhere close, but it wasn't enough to prepare him for the realization that Jack was standing right behind him, reaching around and guiding his arms and legs with his own. A quick glance revealed Jack's profile looming dizzyingly close to his face. Why such a grizzled and foul-mouthed soldier made his knees go weak, he did not know. He told himself it was the cigarette smoke.

"You have to reduce the movement, Adam," Jack murmured. He demonstrated what he meant by using Ocelot as his puppet. "Everything must be calculated. Maybe… if you moved a little like _this_ instead…"

A comeback was in order, but Ocelot was too busy trying to stay calm to bother with it. Jack, of course, did not seem to notice. Ocelot was only too thankful for the fact that the man eventually stepped away, and gestured for him to try it with a wave of his cigarette. For the rest of the afternoon and the evening to come, Ocelot would remember what it felt like to have the man pressed against his back, speaking words soft and low into his ear.


	5. I appeal to your scratches, OtaconSnake

**I appeal to your scratches and your tattered fur.**

_I figure that this one takes place between MGS2 and MGS4. The title is taken from the 31 Days theme for December 3, 2008._

_

* * *

  
_

Otacon has come to define their relationship in bandages, antiseptic, the cloying scent of Marlboro Reds and taste of cheap alcohol. There are other things, of course, things that involve blood and rain, but that sort of stuff is too poetic for his tastes.

"Don't… say a word."

"Too late. I'm already talking."

He didn't used to be strong enough to pick Snake up off the floor outside of his apartment and drag him inside, but with the things they fought and the things they did in their free time, he figures that he shouldn't be surprised that it's getting easier and easier to play a broken soldier's crutch.

"Here. Drink this. I'll patch that up."

"No need."

"Stop acting tough."

There are times when Snake's more like a sullen schoolboy than a super soldier, and Otacon takes advantage of this by moving deftly, quickly and never taking no for an answer. That, and Otacon has always felt the need to study the man's aging and ever injured body with his own eyes, to remember why he has to put up with expecting the unexpected 24/7. That, and a cold bottle of whiskey really helps take the edge off the pain.

"If FOXDIE doesn't kill you first," Otacon says, some two hours and a hell lot of stitches later, "you will."

"Dying out on the field's the only way I ought to go," Snake replies, as he takes another swig from the bottle.

They don't talk until sunrise, and it's only because somebody has to pass the butter over the breakfast table.


	6. Twisting the lilac stalks, BigBossBoss

**Slowly twisting the lilac stalks.**

_Spoilers for the final fight in the game._

_The title is taken from the 31 Days theme for July 7, 2009._

_

* * *

  
_

It's a weight like no other, like he's not known before in all of his years of fighting prior to this one mission of all missions, in the days that he's spent on the run, stalking through the shadows of leaves, taking the bullets/the cuts of a knife/the shock of a live current/the rage of fire/the blows of fists and feets, setting his sights on getting a little farther, moving a little faster, heading towards the one place he needs to be but wishes that he never ever had to go to.

It's a weight like no other, and a sensation unrivaled by anything else: lifting up that handgun, placed against your palm and the grip of your fingers by the woman who was more than a mentor, more than a mother. Staring down the barrel, down at that face transfigured, somehow, in the half-light of a Russian sun. Seeing those lips move, hearing nothing. Feeling everything.

He'll remember the sound later, for years to come, whenever he dares to dream: a single shot, an 8mm bullet screaming through a field of white flowers, wrecking air and stray petals. He'll wake up, wash his face and the image of her out of his eyes, but the scent does not go away, not until he's drank past the point of sanity or smoked until the nicotine and tobacco obliterated everything else.


	7. Everything you ever wished for, OtaconSn

**Everything you ever wished for****.**

_The title is taken from the Prompt #4, off the 52 Flavors community. This fic likely takes place sometime after Metal Gear Solid 2._

_

* * *

  
_

It's not the most romantic setup that Otacon can think of, really, and definitely not something like all those stories he used to read in his younger years when manga meant everything and big robots stayed quite firmly in the realm of impossibilities. One bedroom apartment, big enough to accommodate two men but with no walls to speak of, absolutely no privacy. Roommate who's perhaps the greatest soldier the world's ever seen, but sucks at being civil, _absolutely _sucks at everything that doesn't involve some form of combat, and most of all, absolutely _fucking _sucks at taking care of himself. By most definitions, in fact, this whatever thing that they have going on between them, it's closer to being something horrible and not-quite-abusive but certainly emotionally draining. Sucks the life right out of you, faster than a bullet-shaped whole in your gut can.

Odd, then, the fact that Otacon won't consider another possibility, or back away towards something safer and less demanding. Someone as logical as him, you'd think that he'd know enough to have at least a vague idea what's good for him, and waking up at least once a week to an irritable and half-dead roomie crashing through the door and bleeding all over his blueprints for a new machine really shouldn't count. Otacon believes, though, that the strange sort of domesticity that comes with waking up from a night of slow and rough fucking to the sound of Snake bumbling around in their bathroom and not an inkling where he dropped his clothes is _his _sort of domesticity, and he wouldn't trade it for the world.


	8. Morning glories make a roof, OtaconSnake

**Morning glories make a roof.**

_This is set sometime after the end of MGS4. The title is taken from the 31 Days theme for October 7, 2009._

_

* * *

  
_

Solid Snake's dreams are always full of gun smoke and hell fire and screams, but these days, he never fails to wake up to the sound of strips of honey-cured bacon sizzling away on the stove and the sound of morning traffic on the streets just below his window. An immediate reminder, perhaps, of the fact that he's supposed to live a perfectly normal life now, one that involves paying taxes and flipping channels on the telly and eating junk food – just a few examples of a whole bunch of perfectly normal things, rituals that are worlds apart from what he's used to, like catching and roasting wild jungle snake over an open fire.

See, also: killing people dead before they even realize that he's there.

See, also: fighting gigantic robots.

See, also: singlehandedly stopping super (crazy) villains who happen to carry his genes.

"Snake? If you're up, there's coffee for you."

That's his cue to get up and go, and it's kind of funny how it's somehow _easier_ for him to get on his feet in spite of the fact that his body is no less better than it was during his last operation – he's not getting any younger, after all, only older and a little frailer by the month. It's the small things, though, that bring the life back, that jog up those aching joints and clear his failing vision: warm floorboards, sunlight through his window, and the sight of Otacon bustling about in the kitchen, flipping the eggs. Sunny's over at the kitchen table, setting down the plates – Snake makes it a point to ruffle her hair in greeting as he passes her by.

"Good morning."

"Mm."

Perfect time for a cigarette, but oddly, Snake hasn't been looking for one lately. The ex-soldier goes for the coffee instead, and takes the morning paper from where it's stuffed in the mail chute. He's frowning at the editorials by the time Otacon comes around with the food and his usual smile.

"Let's eat?"

And it hits him again, how he's used to it, this thing he can't name, and it's kind of… well. Nice. This whole waking up in an actual bed thing. This apartment thing. This Average American Breakfast thing. Having no targets used to make him edgy. Now he's starting to find it silly how he used to sleep with a gun under his pillow.

He's getting soft, losing that old edge, and somehow? It's perfectly okay.

"…Yeah. Let's eat."


End file.
